My grandparents named my father after the great thinker and philosopher Plato, which proves they had no ability to preempt personality. Perhaps a more suitable persona was provided when his peers nicknamed him after the tuberous starch vegetable, Plato-The-Potato.
Philosophical thinking was never Plato’s forte. But that doesn’t mean he was without talents. He has been irreplaceable in bringing me and my siblings to tears of laughter, by the simple act of doing nothing more than being his own self.
Everyone remembers the first car they bought, usually as a defining moment of independence. Mine was memorable because of Plato.
I’d been trolling the Trading Post weekly for the Subaru Brumby ute which I’d decided would make a fine car for a twiggy-armed teenager who had no experience with non-powered steering. Most people take a mechanically-minded friend or relative with them to inspect a second-hand vehicle. I took the potato.
We were an hour into the drive when he asked me to search for the address in his street directory. I extracted the tattered tome from the door pocket of his Commodore where it had quietly carried on existing for the past fifteen years, proving itself useful as a sun shield (evidenced by the perfect rectangle of interior fabric there which was five shades darker). This, I quickly found out was the street directory’s sole function. Because the address we needed was not only unlisted — the whole damn suburb was displayed as a patch of khaki that could’ve been mistaken for mould if it weren’t for the italicised print labelling it as Crown Land.
Plato’s swearing finally gave way to words of wisdom. ‘We’ll stop at the next petrol station. They’ll have new street directories.’
‘Great idea. It’s about time you got a new one.’ I rubbed ink residue from my fingers, the sun-shielding had taken its toll.
He gaped. ‘I don’t need a new one! Here’s what we’re going to do. While I’m cleaning the car windshield, you go inside, grab a street directory off the shelf, take it to the back of the store where the cashier can’t see you, and look up the address.’
Pre smartphone days meant a person had to exercise extreme memory relay, aptly named Photographic. ‘Isn’t it better that you do the dodgy looking up job?’
He gave me a sidelong glance. ‘Nah, you’ll be less obvious.’
I refrained from calling out the real reason, even though it was starchily obvious.
We somehow made it to the address — Eucalyptus Street which was devoid of trees. Dad nodded on cue whenever the seller pointed out bits of the engine’s anatomy. All I saw were flashbacks of Plato’s past encounters with car mechanics — him emerging from his Commodore bonnet, curls greased up with break fluid while he told the socket that had just bounced off his exposed big toe to get fucked.
Dad asked, ‘We’d like to take it for a test drive.’
The seller’s jaw dropped as if we’d asked for his kidney.
He explained the reason — the last time he had tried selling a vehicle, the pretend buyer had taken it for a test drive and never returned.
After we assured him that we weren’t a pair of bandits (obviously. This guy really needed to practice a little discernment. I wanted to say, Look at us both — there’s a reason clowns are always portrayed with fluffy hair!).
With the Commodore left behind as collateral and the directions for going around the block only semi-heard, we took off. Plato drove and I fiddled with the stereo (because isn’t that the real reason a person falls in love with a car). Dad was too busy blaming the clutch when we bunny-hopped from the lights to notice the turn we had just missed. While our heads jerked in synchrony like we were leaning up against a pair of subwoofers I said, ‘Dad, we were supposed to turn right back there.’
‘Ah, don’t worry, we’ll go right at the next street… Get fucked gears!’
He had a weird repulsion to turning around. I’d been in the Commodore with him on several occasion where he point blank refused to do it. One time he made me late for a soccer game because of it. He drove us deeper and deeper into a suburb waiting for the car behind us to turn off so that he could pull over and check the map. His face turned a deeper shade of red each time we took a right or left at an intersection to find the car taking the same turn. ‘Come on!’ He shouted. ‘Give me a fucking break! Where the hell do you live? Fuckin’ banana!’
The poor banana was probably enjoying a peaceful drive home while listening to Enya, oblivious that the crazy-haired Commodore driver in front was comparing him to a dag that couldn’t be shaken from an arse.
Plato continued driving the Brumby forwards, taking turns that did not funnily enough lead us back to the correct road.
‘I think you should turn around.’
It was his turn to stare like I’d asked for his kidney. ‘No no, we’ll be right. I’ll take the next left which should get us back to that main intersection.’
I just had to let him, his stubbornness was too great. Doing a U-turn might lead us over a cliff or into the jaws of a Titanosaurus.
After the tenth wrong turn took us well and truly down the road less travelled, I cracked. ‘Dad! We need to turn around!’
‘No - We - Don’t.’
‘If you get on an escalator going the opposite direction, isn’t it easier to go back to the bottom rather than continuing up the wrong way?’
‘What the hell has this got to do with escalators?’
A twenty minute stint of strained silence followed, broken by the grinding clutch and the bunny-boppin’ beats. I finally announced, ‘We’ve been gone almost half an hour. The seller’s going to think he’s had another vehicle stolen.’
‘Shit, you’re right. How are we going to find our way back?’
We had no map, and the newly developed suburb had been constructed using a total of three house designs — all consisting of rectangle yards of turf and hedge-lined driveways. I turned to face him in full, preparing him for the bomb I was about to drop. ‘We’re going to have to ask for directions. And we might have to do a U-turn.’
He side-eyed me. ‘Righto.’ Then he spotted a man. ‘Here’s a decent looking fellow.’ Dad slowed the ute. His version of a decent looking fellow was a man mowing his lawn in a pair of flip flops, wearing nothing but an oversized sombrero and a pair of 80’s style footy shorts that were just long enough to cover his nads.
‘G’day mate, can you give us directions to get back to Eucalyptus Street?’
The man shouted over the mower engine, ‘Geez, you’re a fair way from there.’
I took a deep breath while the man rattled on, trying to remember the directions by counting the number of lefts and rights. I didn’t need Plato who pointedly raised eyebrows at me to know the recall was going to be my job.
We left after a thank you and the guy went back to his mowing. Dad pulled off the curb without a bunny-hop and turned to me. ‘I hope you got all those directions because I didn’t get a bloody word.’
I sighed, ‘Didn’t you absorb any of it? I got most of it. I just don’t remember which way he said to get out of this street.’
‘Shit.’
But luck was on our side. For once Plato’s reluctance to turn around was the best decision we made. The street was a circuit, so we wound up back at the sombrero mini-shorts wearing man. He must’ve heard the Subaru’s box engine as it took us around on the scenic route. He’d taken off his sombrero and was waving it high above his head to get our attention, then he was pointing to the street opposite — arm movements so large he could’ve been signalling a wayward 757.
Dad called out the window. ‘Thaaanks maaaate.’
I think the final decision to buy the car came down to Dad’s version of compensation to the seller who had suffered near heart failure by the time we returned. I was glad of the decision to get the car, but mostly I was glad that Plato came with me because he turned what should’ve been a straightforward transaction into something far more memorable.
Plato might not have lived up to his philosophical namesake, but somewhere between the swearing and the refusal to perform U-turns, he has taught me that at times the only way to survive chaos is to keep moving forwards in the hope that someone in a sombrero eventually points you in the right direction.
Hilarious!!! I could just imagine poor old Plato swearing away. He's one of a kind and you've captured him so well Katherine! So true that the best stories are the ones we recount from our own experiences. Can't wait for the next one!
Loved this one